


Training

by pterodactyldrops



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Cullen and Samson interact, Dialogue Heavy, Gen, One-Shot, Redemption
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2015-07-05
Packaged: 2018-04-07 17:59:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4272732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pterodactyldrops/pseuds/pterodactyldrops
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Samson starts training the recruits at Skyhold.</p><p>He doesn’t mean to at first. But like most things in his life, he gets drawn in deeper than he ever expects.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Training

Samson starts training the recruits at Skyhold.

He doesn’t mean to at first. But like most things in his life, he gets drawn in deeper than he ever expects.

Most mornings, Samson wakes up late. He barely bring himself to get out of bed. Body stiff. Mind clouded. He wants to sleep and imagine the warm sun of Kirkwall, the gentle lapping of the Waking Sea on the shore. Not this cold and bitter cell with the sound of a roaring waterfall filling his ears.

If it wasn’t for the lyrium he’s offered, he’d probably just stay laying there.

After he rouses himself, he takes the shortest route from his cell to the undercroft. He keeps his eyes focused straight ahead. Tries not to let his eyes wander. He doesn’t care to see what’s going on. Not his concern anymore, really.

He keeps his head held high because he’s a _prisoner_ , not a criminal.

But can’t stop himself from hearing.

There’s a group of recruits—the same three, usually—that gather in the courtyard. Samson suspects that they’re getting a few extra practice hours in. Probably trying to impress the Commander, rise up in ranks, or some stupid shit like that. But Samson’s got to give them credit for one thing—they’re here every morning without fail, waiving their swords with weak wrists and raising their shields with locked elbows.

It’s none of his damned business, Samson keeps on reminding himself. He’s not a _general_ anymore. These aren’t _his_ men and women.

But it’s hard not to listen.

It’s hard to ignore the way they talk about the pale ale in the tavern. Reminds him of all the complaints there were in the Gallows about the shit they served at the Hanged Man.

They complain about the beds in Skyhold. Too soft. Too stuffy. Too many people snoring. But then one of them mentions how they’re just grateful to have a roof over their head and Samson smiles, because how often did he tell that to Cullen way back to before the Gallows went to shit?

Some of them even remind Samson of Templars past. There’s a tall one that makes him think of Ser Maurevar Carver—quiet, but loud when it matters, and always answering a question with another. One’s got a squished up nose that reminds him of Cullen—sniffling and screaming at night, but rigid and faithful and _unwavering_ during the day. One even reminds Samson of a younger version of himself—a little too curious, a little too sympathetic, and pretty fucking annoying.

But it’s when the recruits talk about their homes that Samson feels his chest twist. They talk about their families, and Samson remembers having to write letters to families of those who died under his command. They talk about lovers, too, and stolen kisses and Samson can only think of letters tucked under his breast plate that got moist in the hot Kirkwall sun.

This is _always_ how it happens to Samson. He listens to Mages and tries to help them. He listens to Templars and tries to help them. And now?

Now he’s listening to some damned kid recruit wax poetic about a raven-haired man back home, and all he wants to do is _help_ her live long enough to make it to him again.

That’s when Samson stops trying to hear and starts _watching_.

He watches them for the next week. The recruits aren’t _that_ bad. They’re not sloppy, which is effing amazing for recruits. They’re not slow, either. Maybe the Commander isn’t _that_ bad at his job after all.

But they’re cautious. Defensive. Protective. They hold their shields up high. Too high—they leave their feet exposed. It’s fine when fighting a mage or a man, but a Red Templar? They spot weaknesses. They aim to kill. They’ll knock a man’s feet out from under him and then stab him in the chest without a second’s hesitation.

Samson would’ve stayed watching. He would’ve kept his mouth shut. Kept on walking. But then the tallest recruit—the one who reminds him of Ser Maurevar—she opens her mouth and proclaims, “We’ll be ready soon! Good job.”

She’s got strong arms and she hits her fellow recruits again and again and again. And if they were going to fight mere men, Samson would maybe agree that they’re good enough. But they’re _not_ fighting men anymore.

When a Red Templar forgets their name, they aren’t people anymore. Just husks. Used up and spit out just like the Chantry, but instead of senile they’re _deadly_.

Samson barks out a laugh. “What did you just call that? A good job?”

Samson will remember their faces. It’ll keep a grin on his face later when Dagna is poking at him. Their eyes bug out of their heads, their jaws drop, they stare at each other and back at him like he really is the villain the tales paint him to be.

“ _What_?” The shortest one says dumbly.

“I said, you call that shit a good job?”

“ _I’d_ ,” says the girl, stepping forward, chest puffed out, chin held high, “ _I’d_ call that a damn good shield block.” She clears her throat and adds, “Uh, _ser_.”

“ _Idiot_ ,” the boy with a squished nose hisses, “Don’t call him ser. He’s not part of the Inquisition. He’s not even a Templar anymore.”

Samson shrugs. “Don’t much care what you call me.” Samson walks towards them. They keep on staring at him, but not one takes a step back. _Good_. “But t _hat_ display? You’d be dead in five minutes if you faced a real Red.”

“Yeah?” asks Shorty. They all seem a little braver now, standing close together, huddled behind their practice swords and shields. Almost makes Samson smile. “I doubt that. We’re almost ready to head out.”

“You—” Samson points, “ _You_ hold your sword like it’s a wet noodle. And you? You wince every time _she_ tries to strike you. And you? The lady? You hold your shield too damn high.”

“We’re _supposed_ to hold it high,” she protests. “Commander’s orders.”

“That so? And where is _Commander Cullen_?” Samson looks around. “Don’t see him anywhere barking orders at you right now.”

“Um. Meeting?”

Squished Nose scratches the back of his neck. “He and Knight-Captain Rylen have been planning the next attack the past few days—”

“Shhhh,” Shorty hisses. “Don’t tell _him_ that.”

Samson laughs. “Like I give a fuck. Now, give me your sword.”

“ _What_?”

“That shit you’ve got going on isn’t going to impress a Red Templar,” Samson says. “You think they care about strategies? About flashing the Inquisition seal? About you inflicting _pain_?”

He waits for all three of them to meet his eyes. Waits for all three to shake their hands. Samson smirks. “Good. ‘Cause by now, those men have changed. Tricks like tilting your shield down and away from your face won’t work.”

The woman steps forward. She’s young. Younger than the two men—and they barely look past nineteen. Not much younger than Cullen was when he arrived in Kirkwall.

“Then show us what will work,” she tells Samson.

So Samson does.

First day he watches them closely. Second day, he starts barking when their footing slips. Third day, he’s twisting their swords in their hands and shoving shields down to the ground when they raise ‘em too high.

By the end of the week, they’re handing him a practice sword and he’s fighting one-on-one with a grin on his face.

Samson drags himself out of bed early every morning. He doesn’t lay there, staring at the ceiling. He gulps down his lyrium instead of hoarding and savoring it. Every second wasted on that shit is another where he could be out there doing something _useful_.

He often arrives at Dagna’s late. Out of breath from taking the steps to the Hall two at a time, sweaty from skidding into the undercroft. He probably smells worse than usual too. But Dagna never complains, and he finds he’s more relaxed during her prodding.

It feels… _good_ to have a purpose. To be doing something other than waiting until lyrium drives him insane.

And Maker be damned, his recruits seem to be improving.

The Lady holds her sword properly. She strikes longer, harder, faster, and she doesn’t just go for their _shields_ anymore. She inches around, uses her power to dodge. She uses her damned brain instead of just her brawn.

Squished Nose stops hiding behind his shield. He stops standing in one place and cowering. Now he’s more likely to move out of the way. Samson’s even taken to making him fight without his shield, and the boy grumbles like Cullen used to, but he’s getting _better_.

And Shorty? He’s less sloppy. More controlled. His change is subtle. It’s hard to judge tightened movements, more watchful eyes, but Samson sees it in his face and it makes him grin.

Samson almost mutters a good job some days.

“Need to move from behind that shield, Squishy—”

“Ser, my name’s Arin.”

“Move from behind that shield, Squishy—”

“The boy’s name is Arin, Samson.”

Squishy almost drops his shield. Samson only sighs. He should’ve fucking known it. How many weeks had they been at this now?

To be honest, he’s surprised Cullen hadn’t shown his face earlier.

“Rylen wondered how those three managed to improve so quickly,” Cullen remarks. His face is creased, brow furrowed, frowning, just as there always is now when they see one another. But it softens a little as he looks at the three recruits.

“Rylen just needed to step out of his fucking office to know,” Samson barks. “It’s not a secret.”

“I see that,” Cullen says.

Samson rolls his eyes. He takes a step away from the recruits, shoves his hands in his pockets. “Can we get this done with?”

If it’s over, it’s over. It was a nice few weeks. A bit of a respite. But he’s not going to lick Cullen’s boots or wag his tail like a dog or fix him with puppy dog eyes. He likes being out of his cell. Some days, he likes these kids. But he’s not going to beg for scraps anymore. That part of his life is over. He’s not even sure if he’s got it in him to beg anymore.

“Get what _done with_?”

“I’m not playing a Makerdamned guessing game with you, _Knight-Captain_ ,” Samson sneers. “If you’re going to order me back to my cell just do it.”

“Actually,” Cullen says in that superior voice that makes Samson want to growl. “I was going to ask you to train some more recruits.”

“ _What_?”

Shorty laughs. Samson turns to face him, glare on his face. “Shut your mouth and start blocking with your damn sword.”

“Yes, ser!”

Cullen’s chuckling quietly. Samson scowls. “I’m sure you find this real amusing.”

“I do, actually,” Cullen replies. “But it’s…” he rubs the back of his neck. “It’s…”

“What? Nice? Sunshine and flowers? Like _old times_?”

Cullen shuts his mouth, shakes his head. “No…but it seems some things don’t change.”

“Damn right they don’t,” Samson grumbles, and he’s not even sure what he’s saying, just that he feels too close to Cullen and at the same time too far way, and it’s making his head spin and his stomach twist.

“I’ll send some more recruits tomorrow morning,” Cullen comments, looking at the three practicing.

“Fine,” Samson snaps.

“I’ll let Dagna know that some of your duties have been reassigned.”

“You do that,” Samson replies.

“And—” Cullen hesitates for a second, then adds more firmly, “And I expect a written report from you on their training schedule once a week, including a bi-weekly in person meeting.”

Samson’s immediate reaction is to protest. He doesn’t want to be stuck in a room with Cullen any longer than he has to, and he hasn’t written reports since he was kicked out of the Templars. But he glances at Cullen and sees…he sees a _general_ who cares about the men and women under his commander, and despite the rift between them, that’s something the two still have in common.

“No problem, _Commander_.”

Samson didn’t set out to train any recruits.

But it’s what he finds himself doing every morning anyway.

 


End file.
